“The true answer to that question leapt to Gertrude’s mind with a terrifying clarity. To give that answer, she would have to explain what had happened, say who had threatened her, tell the story… The unhappy girl shrank from this idea in fear. She hastened to find another answer, and found only one, the one farthest from the truth, which would free her from that torment swiftly and surely. ‘I am becoming a nun,’ she said, hiding her agitation, ‘I am becoming a nun of my own free will.’”
Gertrude discovers that it is easier to tell someone what they want to hear—to lie—than to relate the messy truth.
“And she gave her fateful reply.” Virtually every Italian knows this passage by heart: “La sventurata rispose,” and I am often asked how I translated it. In the earlier draft of the novel, Fermo e Lucia, this sentence is followed by a detailed account of the Signora’s descent into sin. Juicy reading, and the reason some Italians prefer this previous version. Manzoni’s decision to excise it persuades me, instead, that his story-telling instincts were on point. He sets our imaginations to work and lends the plot a bit of a cliff-hanger. But he also creates a dilemma, for in this moment his (and our own) compassion for the young girl should mutate to abhorrence at the actions of the adult woman.
So why did I translate it this way? Earlier translations rendered “sventurata” as wretch, which got me humming “Amazing Grace.” Italian has a way of turning adjectives into nouns that can sound pretty awkward if translated literally or, as is often done, following the adjective with “one.” A “sventura” is a moment of bad or adverse luck, a misfortune. But hanging over the Italian word is the notion of fate, of an unseen force determining the bad luck that has befallen you. So I took the word “fate,” shifted it to modify the noun “reply,” and after wavering between “fated” (controlled by fate) and “fateful” (a quality of ominous prophecy), I came up with “And gave her fateful reply.” I also just like the way it sounds.
Some critics have called these excursions “digressions.” I disagree. The novel embeds a series of stories within the larger plot that lend it variety and sparkle. Now that we have heard the nun’s story, Manzoni brings us back to the narrative present, and the prying questions about sex that La Signora is asking of Lucia. Once again, Agnese steps in with a little homespun wisdom:
“‘Don’t be surprised,’ she said. ‘When you know the world as well as I do, you’ll see that there’s nothing to be surprised at. Nobles are all a little bit mad: some more, some less, some in one way, some in another. It’s best to just let them talk, especially when you need them. Pretend that you’re taking them seriously, as if they were saying reasonable things.’”
Will someone please write a novel about Agnese?
I really do love your comments Michael.
For some reason I felt a parallel between Gertrude holding back the messy truth and Agnese’ advice when talking with mad nobles. We bend to the conversational circumstance.
Also in this segment is Gertrude’s behavior towards others. One would wish in a community there would be a mentor, friend or guide, but her being the Prince’s daughter creates a pariah status that must be so awfully lonely.
In this chapter, when Egadio calls out to Gertrude, she "gives her fateful reply. At first she felt a happiness that, while it was certainly not pure, was very much alive. The tedious void in her spirit was now filled with ... a powerful life... She suddenly became more settled, more peaceful." (p. 181)
I find it fascinating Gertrude had a similar emotional experience with the page boy: "gradually something imperceptible and new came over the girl's manner: an unusual tranquility and disquiet, as if she had found something she cared about ..." (p. 159)
I like this similarity. It rings so true! Love pulls at her, pleases her and disturbs her.
She suffered so profoundly after interacting with the page boy, even though she was still "free" and not morally bound to refuse him. Her actions, and her guilt and humiliation when they were discovered, ended up being the straw that broke the camel's back (!), the reason she ended up agreeing (or rather, not disagreeing) to become a nun, altering her whole future.
And yet here, enticed again by a longing for love, she responds to Egadio despite having had his previous disastrous experience--and now, no longer "innocent" but having made promises to be pure--adding "hypocrisy to her old flaws." And then, as before, someone discovers the relationship and she again feels tortured by what might happen.
Are we meant to feel critical of her when she responds to Egadio. I guess so. It's definitely not wise. And she's not respecting her vows. But knowing she didn't sincerely want to take the vows, it is difficult not to sympathize with her!
Oh, and also, I found it very odd the young lay sister who blurts out that she knows something disappears! The text doesn't hint at all in this direction--in fact, strongly suggests the opposite-- but ...I couldn't help wondering if Signora had something to do with it and the narrator was misleading us!